Jacob takes a condom from his pocket. I move to impress him with a blow-job trick— putting a condom on with my mouth.
All suave, I balance the condom in my mouth and lower my lips over the head of his manhood, before carefully slipping the condom down the shaft. But as I’m pushing the rubber down with my lips, I inhale one last breath. Big mistake. That last inhale pulls the condom further back into my mouth. Before I know it, the condom is lodged in my throat. I couldn’t breathe. I’m choking on a condom!
My life flashes before my eyes. All my sexual escapades flicker one by one like a Powerpoint of penises: the one with the loose foreskin, the member that curves too far to the right, and the one they call Thumbelina because his stump is as small as a thumb. Wait, why is my boss in my apocalyptic Powerpoint penis montage? This is about dicks, and my boss is not a dick
more like the C-word.
As death dawns on me, I beg the Angel of Death, Please, I don’t want to die! Not like this. What a way to go. Imagine my gravestone would read, “Here lies a dear angel, who died choking on a condom. She bit the dust, biting a boner.”
No! I refuse to die with a Trojan in my throat. Hell, if I were to die of choking, it better be from a dick— not a Durex.
To be continued in Lessons in Lovemaking: The Novel.